Kindred Spirits
by thats-a-moray
Summary: Time fades even legend, and the origin of the Soul Reaver has been lost long ago. But its purpose remains - to feed on the souls of any creature it strikes. Kindred, this blade and I.


**30 APC (Thirty Years After The Pillars' Corruption)  
**

 **The Pillars of Nosgoth  
**

"No."

One word. That was all it took to topple the world.

It started with an earthquake. The ground jumped out from under him and trees came crashing down - but the loudest noise in the clearing was the unearthly shrieking of Ariel, the ghost of the previous Balance Guardian, clutching her ears and writhing mid-air like a snake with its head cut off. Then with a bone-shuddering crack the towering Pillars of Nosgoth split and splintered vertically, fractures racing upward and upward beyond his sight. Kain shielded his face. Just as he transformed his body to mist the Pillars exploded, unleashing a shock-wave that made the trees bend like saplings in a hurricane.

The body of Anarcrothe the States Guardian flew into the air and shredded to a bloody pulp. Although rendered twisted and demonic under possession by the Unspoken, the body of Mortanius, Guardian of Death, was likewise obliterated. Even Kain's mist form, previously impervious to all damage, blasted apart.

After the shock-wave subsided the fragments of the corrupted Pillars hung in the air, motionless like bubbles trapped in ice. Without a sound the highest fragment started to fall, then the next and the next on down to the base, crashing across fallen trees or stabbing the earth like spears, until the entire forest became their grave.

Several minutes passed before Kain finally managed to reassemble himself. When he returned to his physical form the entire clearing had gone silent. He turned slowly, taking in the devastation. Trees littered the ground for hundreds of miles in all directions. The force of the eruption ripped shallow gouges through the earth nearest the Pillars. Death rode the wind. As the sky began to churn, Kain's sharp ears detected distant screaming. Following the source of the sound, Kain beheld torchlight on the horizon, coming from the distant settlement of Ziegsturhl, once hidden behind the walls of the forest. They would have been the first to notice the Pillars' collapse and the most effected. First it was only one voice. Others joined it, growing in melancholy chorus, until the whole of Nosgoth seemed to wail in mourning.

For the first time in written history, the Pillars had fallen.

 **Three Days Later**

 **East of the Pillars**

Thunder rattled the mausoleum. The storm raging outside seemed to be Nosgoth's final death rattle.

Since Mortanius raised Kain from the dead, his mausoleum had become a comfortable lair. He even put up curtains. Well, not curtains exactly. There were no windows deep in the earth. It sort of cheered the place up, though. The candles helped. Lying in his coffin, Kain felt his eyes drawn to the portrait on the wall depicting his former humanity. His hair was dark then. He preferred its former color to its current shade of silver-grey. Sometimes he wanted to rip that painting apart. He couldn't bring himself to; it used to be one of his favorites.

The clothes Kain now wore were stolen from the victims of his blood thirst. Although more humble than he was accustomed to, they felt good against his cold skin. He tired of wearing armor all the time. Damn his father for burying him in his armor. Not even his _best_ suit of armor. It was iron for god's sake!

Kain examined Vorador's signet ring in the torch light, holding it high above his head. The ring was forged from a solid piece of polished steel and styled with blood red runes - or perhaps they _were_ blood. When the light struck the edge it flashed silver. Only this remained of his mentor after Moebius beheaded him in front of the crowd at Stahlberg.

He should have listened to Vorador when he warned him not to meddle in the affairs of humans. That ambition had led irrevocably to Vorador's capture by Moebius's cutthroat mob and the near extinction of their race. Had he agreed to Ariel's sacrifice, there would be no more vampires in Nosgoth. Kain was now the last of his kind. He draped the back of his hand over his eyes with a hard sigh, rolling Vorador's ring over his thumb and index finger.

Kain leapt from his coffin and grabbed his coat off the wall, which he had hung on the handle of a dagger jammed deep into the stone. He threw it on and went outside.

Icy sheets of rain pelted the cemetery. Lightning stroked the land. It had been this way since the Pillars fell. The cemetery grounds were little more than mud. Even if the rain let up, going anywhere on foot would be impossible for days, unless he wanted his feet to burn off above the ankle. Fortunately, his mausoleum had withstood the deluge so far. He could only pray the flood-waters would not reach him. Standing at the top of the steps under an overhang, Kain watched Nosgoth drown impassively.

Life used to be so simple. He had a warm manor waiting for him in Coorhagen, enough capital to sustain his roaming lifestyle indefinitely, countless adventures ahead of him, any woman he wanted; total freedom. Now he wasn't sure what he had. This might be Armageddon. All because of one, little word.

He could not articulate why he had said that word. Had he fully understood the repercussions, he could not imagine he would have acted any differently. He had no grand plan, no cunning strategy. He just wanted to live. The wind whipped at his long hair.

He had accepted Mortanius's offer of resurrection for revenge. For her cryptic promise of release from Mortanius's curse, he had agreed to hunt down the corrupted members of the Circle of Nine for Ariel and slay them to restore their Pillars. Only when this task was complete did Ariel reveal the identity of the final Guardian, the corrupted Guardian of Balance he had promised to destroy in exchange for freedom from this vampiric unlife: himself. As it turned out, Ariel had a rather different definition of 'free.' After she had deceived him for so long, did she truly expect him to say yes?

Thanks to Vorador and his experiences with the Nemesis he no longer regarded his vampirism as a curse. Killing suited him. Of course, it always had. That was why he used his family fortune to become an errant. On the surface of it, he had traveled the land in search of gold and glory, but in reality he only felt at home on the road. He savored the luxuries of civilization and loathed society. He could only ever enjoy the former for short periods before he felt the need to flee or succumb to his base impulses. Now he no longer needed to feel ashamed of it.

The wind shifted and splashed rain at Kain's feet. Scowling, he backed away and retreated into his mausoleum. As he came down the stairs into his crypt he happened to glance at his weapon rack. He stopped and narrowed his eyes. The Soul Reaver was doing that thing again, its eyes all aglow with blue fox-fire. "What are you, hungry? We're all hungry but it's too wet to go outside," he barked at the soul devouring sword.

Of course, the Soul Reaver did not reply. In all likelihood it did not hear. Kain did not understand why he sometimes felt the impulse to speak to it. Still, it was his only company.

He stormed across the room and hunched on the edge of his coffin with his hands limp between his knees. He would rather be hungry than bored. Unfortunately, he was both. Sometimes the inconveniences of being a vampire gave him new reason to call it a curse. If he had the power he would re-make the world in his favor: no sun, little rain, and all the blood he could drink. A paradise for his kind. He wondered if he would ever find another. Without Vorador's guidance, he had little idea of how to make more.

Damn Ariel. Damn Moebius. Damn the Circle. Damn them all.

He propped his chin on his wrist and rapped his fingers against his knee while the Soul Reaver fumed at him. The sword was a two-handed flamberge with a vampiric skull on the crossguard, about the size of an actual skull, in fact. Sometimes he felt it stare at him.

Tales of the legendary sword had circulated Nosgoth for centuries. Kain first heard mention of it as a young man in Coorhagen while drinking with friends. After he began roaming he heard more tales of the Soul Reaver as he traveled, rumors so outrageous they convinced him the sword could not exist.

The Soul Reaver could bend time, they said. Indestructible, impossible to dull. The sword was alive, possessed by a soul devouring specter. It tore the souls from its victims with demonic ferocity, rending body and spirit in a shower of blood. Whosoever wielded the Soul Reaver became invincible in battle. These things were mostly true.

Kain strode across the room and lifted the Soul Reaver from the weapons rack. The eyes of the white jade skull spat cold fire at him. Strange how this sword felt so _right_ in his hands. Perfectly balanced, in fact. The finest swordsmith in Nosgoth could not forge a weapon so attuned to him. Sometimes, after striking down an enemy, the Soul Reaver would purr and thrill lovingly in his hands, and he almost felt that the entity inside the steel was his soul mate. The words of sentimental fools, perhaps - yet he could think of no better. He stroked his cold, pale fingers along the length of the wavy blade.

"Hm?" He glanced upward, brow furrowed. Something was wrong. The rain was...

He sprinted up the stairs with the Soul Reaver in hand and shoved open the stone doors. He froze at the top of the stairs, aghast. The rain had stopped completely. Water dripped from the roof of his mausoleum. Deep puddles pocked the muddy earth, transforming the cemetery into a swamp. Golden beams of sunlight pierced the clouds. Kain slowly started to smile. The worst was over - or so it seemed. He would give it another day to let the water dry up.

The question was, what should he do now? The Pillars were gone and their Guardians, the most powerful sorcerers and sorceresses in Nosgoth, all dead, except for him: Kain, Guardian of Balance, the last Pillar and vampire standing. He leaned the Soul Reaver against his shoulder and looked at it thoughtfully.

* * *

AN: This story used to be called "Onward and Upward" and was part of Drabbles of the Damned. I've expanded on it and made it a stand alone.


End file.
